


lunation

by starguard (yujael)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Video Game Mechanics, as in fiddling with crest mechanics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-09-07 07:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20305615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujael/pseuds/starguard
Summary: After days of needling, Sylvain finally manages to convince Felix to a night on the town. Things proceed in a downhill fashion from there.





	1. new moon

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to my new baby :) this fic will have several relatively short chapters that follow the general theme of causing my favourites pain and then making it better eventually. new characters and other plot things will be tagged as we go along, and hopefully, it won't be long between updates! 
> 
> enjoy :)

The scent hits first. It’s caustic, taking Sylvain from groggy wakefulness to full alertness in seconds with a nauseating cocktail of mildew and blood and rot. It clogs his nose and gets trapped in his lungs with the dust that he inhales upon waking up and peeling the side of his head off the ground. 

Everything else comes down in a cascade as he rises up, using the wall next to him for balance. The room around him is stone on stone on stone, every inch of it old and cracked and dusty so far as he can tell. The light is negligible, given to him only by a slanted bar of orange tossed under the door, the only feature in the room. The air is cold, too, sending shivers down his arms as he shuffles forward, squinting through the dimness. 

How did he get here?

His mind is filled with other questions, ones he doesn’t get the time to find the answers to before he catches something shifting in the corner of his eye. He whirls around to face it, instantly regretting his haste for the sake of his throbbing skull.

“Sylvain?”

_ Felix_. Sylvain stumbles toward the door, where Felix is kneeling just out of reach of the only light in the room. His face looks pale, but he’s well enough if his voice is anything to go by.

“You’re finally awake,” Felix sighs. Definitely well enough. 

“Felix,” Sylvain breathes, sinking down next to his friend. “What the hell is going on?”

“You don’t remember?”

Oh, Sylvain remembers. He’d just been hoping that maybe Felix would have a different answer. Something better, more logical, less embarrassing than the way Felix finally agreed to go out on the town with Sylvain, only to have the night cut short when the shadows seemed to physically dance from the alley as they passed. 

Few things get Sylvain’s heart hammering in his chest. He’s just that kind of guy--fearless and the like. So, he remembers well the shadows twisting and breaking and shaping into a wicked scythe, into a menacing figure that stuck Sylvain so hard that it felt like he got knocked out of his own body, powerless to stop the same from happening to Felix. His fingers graze against the lump on the side of his head, courtesy of that horror show.

“Was kind of hoping for something other than ‘we got cocky and now we’re paying for it,’” Sylvain admits, coughing away some dust stuck to the back of his throat. “How long have we been here? Wherever _ here _ is.”

“Underground, I think. It’s cold here.” Felix doesn’t shiver, but he does lift a hand and brush his fingers against his temple. Sylvain follows the motion, and that’s when he notices that the dark smudge on the side of Felix’s face isn’t his tangled hair. “And I have no idea. I haven’t been awake that long.”

“And you got on my back about sleeping,” Sylvain starts, trying to keep something light in the dryness. He reaches out, but Felix is already on the move. “Hey--hang on--you’re injured--”

“We need to come up with a way out of here,” Felix interjects, brushing Sylvain’s hand off his arm as he stands and shuffles forward. “Who knows how long we’ve been down here. It might be that no one even realizes we’re gone yet.”

If morning hasn’t already come, then Felix is right. No one seems to notice when another student or villager has gone missing until then. And why would they? Students are supposed to be in bed, or somewhere otherwise safe in the monastery at night, not out carousing through the town.

But Sylvain is intelligent and strong, and Felix is even stronger. Who can kidnap them?

The Death Knight, apparently. 

“Did you try the door?” Sylvain asks.

Felix pauses in the darkness, the shape of him lingering somewhere on the other side of the room. Sylvain knows that the expression on his face is baleful. 

“Can you not even take _this_ seriously?” Felix asks, exasperated. 

“Just offering ideas,” Sylvain says as he pushes himself to his feet. The room sways briefly and he uses the momentum of it to shove against the door. Cold metal bites his arm through the dirty tear in his sleeve as the door stands firm and unopened. He pounds on it next, every knock of his fist against the door reverberating back like a knock of Felix’s against his head. “Hey! Can anyone hear me? Hello?”

Nothing. His voice echoes down a corridor he can’t see and fades away into nothing. Felix comes back around to him. He tries the door, too. Nothing. 

“Well, shit,” Sylvain says as he slides down to the floor with his back against the door. Chilly air wafts through the crack, but it’s not enough to make him shiver now that he’s more awake. “Looks like we’re stuck for now.”

Felix makes an inarticulate noise of displeasure and folds his arms tightly over his chest. “That’s just our luck.”

“Sorry.”

“What?”

Sylvain shrugs. “My idea to go out at night, right?”

Felix must be looking at him, but Sylvain is blocking the light with his back. He can’t tell what Felix is thinking in the unusual stretch of silence. 

“How’s your head?” Sylvain asks instead of waiting for whatever rejoinder Felix is trying to come up with. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m not,” Felix answers gruffly. The shadow of him moves, fingers touching his hairline again. “Not anymore, at least. My head is fine.”

“Probably concussed--”

“As are you,” Felix deadpans. “What of it? We still need to figure out what to do about this situation and I’d wager against there being an infirmary down here.”

There’s the Felix he knows. Sharp as a blade and sturdy as a rock. Just about as blunt as one, too. He’s hurt, but it doesn’t seem like his head is scrambled all that badly. 

“Then… I guess I’m open to ideas. Hit me, Felix.”

“You don’t need to be knocked out again,” Felix replies. Sylvain hopes he’s smiling. It sounds like it. “Speaking of hitting, though…”

He trails off and Sylvain means to pick up the thread--they don’t have their swords, they aren’t _totally _unarmed, not when Felix is the devil he is at hand-to-hand--but something beyond their prison door _cracks _and _squeals _and _bangs_. The echoes ring sharply in Sylvain’s head as he scrambles to his feet. Felix yanks him away from the door in the process, dragging him around to stand behind him. Sylvain protests wordlessly and Felix shushes him as footsteps approach from outside. 

The light under the door dims and dances around as multiple pairs of legs shuffle through it. The pieces begin to click in Sylvain’s head as he counts unique pairs, as a key turns in the lock until it turns over with a heavy _click_.

The people on the other side of the door are all masked. One of them is wearing a set of robes typical of mages. The others, most of them bigger than Sylvain, have armour and weapons. Felix raises his fists anyway, even though Sylvain has already done all the math and come out with the grim result. The odds are stacked against them and they’re surrounded in no time. 

A man’s nasally voice snakes out from underneath the mage’s mask. “Let's bring them down, then.”

One of the armoured men advances as the mage turns around and leaves. He extends a hand toward Sylvain, who pulls away on reflex, and that’s when Felix strikes. He moves like a viper, turning on his heel and putting his knuckles right where the armour doesn’t protect his opponent under the arm.

“_Don’t touch him_,” he spits as the man staggers back. His face is contorted in anger as he whirls around on another guard, one who’s more prepared and able to catch Felix’s fist before he can land another hit. 

Sylvain puts up a token struggle as two sets of strong hands close around his arms. He’s certainly not _comfortable_, but he could be worse off. He could be Felix, who necessitates two men gripping his arms and another holding one foot before the last can finally wrap his arms around Felix’s chest and trap his arms entirely. 

“Felix--”

_ Don’t fight. Don’t get hurt even more. _

Sylvain doesn’t get the chance to say it. The guards march them out of the room, two leading Sylvain between them, another two carrying Felix, and the others flanking them as they proceed down the corridor. 

“Where are you taking us?” Sylvain asks loudly. Felix asks the same question, but his words are muffled by a gloved hand. “What do you want from us? Is it money?”

They won’t get it if that’s the case. House Gautier is infinitely more likely to dispatch the entire host of knights in their service. Fraldarius, too. What would be the point of paying when they have some of the most skilled knights in the land? 

Sylvain doesn’t see these people wanting money, though, as the guards weave through a maze of crumbling stone halls, following their robed master with nary an answer. The last time bandits had a mind to kidnap Sylvain, they never shut up about money, not even when Gautier soldiers were running them down with lances. 

Normal bandits don’t have the Death Knight in their employ, either. 

What, then? Aside from Sylvain’s own mistake, why are they here?

The answer comes hardly a moment later. Sylvain counts the turns--right, left, straight, right--until they arrive at an open doorway flanked by a pair of mages. They scurry out of the way when Felix manages to free an arm and grab onto the doorframe, forcing the guards to fight him into the room, but they settle back into confident whispers after the struggle ends. Once through the door, Sylvain is faced with tall shelves carrying blocky devices he doesn’t recognize and a large, ornate disc on the floor that distantly resembles the Crest analyzer installed in Professor Hanneman’s office. 

“What’s going on in here?” Sylvain asks, although he already has a few good guesses. Think, _ think_. How are they going to get out of this mess?

“I need to see the Crests before we begin,” the masked man from before murmurs to one of his companions, a mage standing by with too many scrolls bundled in their arms. “The order of operations will hinge on it.”

“Crests?” Sylvain blurts out as Felix kicks the legs out from one of his guards. “_That’s _what you want us for? I--we don’t _ have _ any.”

It’s a weak gambit. His worst, actually. Felix flashes him a withering look while the guard he’d kicked over stands up with a grumbled swear and roughly yanks on his arm, shoving his sleeve up to bear his bruised skin. One of Sylvain’s guards does the same, if not a little friendlier, and the lie falls apart when they push him toward the strange-looking Crest analyzer. Several runes along the edge that Sylvain hadn’t seen etched into the metal light up as his hand hovers over it. Crests. Practically every Crest he’s ever heard of.

They all fade, one after the other, until only the Crest of Gautier remains, shimmering faintly in the air. Sylvain is allowed to draw his hand away when it, too, fades.

“Minor Crest,” someone murmurs. 

The discovery is scratched down on paper and Sylvain curses under his breath as Felix’s arm is held over the device next. The ring of Crests lights up again before the Crest of Fraldarius hangs before them, burning brighter than Sylvain’s Crest had.

“_Major _ Crest,” the mage says approvingly. “He was correct, then. Excellent.”

“Fuck you,” Felix snaps. 

“Syringe,” the nasal-voiced mage orders, completely ignoring Felix as he holds his hand out expectantly. 

One of his companions reaches into a chest of drawers behind them and returns with two large needles, one of which goes directly into the other’s hand. They advance on Felix and Sylvain, who begins to struggle in earnest as the needles glints in the light.

“Whoa, now--what are you doing with that?” Sylvain asks as he curls protectively over his arms. It’s a useless effort. One of the guards simply wrenches his bared arm back up. “Come on--if you’re gonna take _blood _from us, the least you could do is--_hey_, don’t touch hi--_fuck!_”

The needle hurts going in, and everything after is only worse. His arm burns as the empty barrel of the syringe fills with blood, stings as the needle is removed, then hurts all over again as a second needle is all but jammed into the spot where the first had been. Sylvain bites his lip through the pain. 

He means to fight more, but he's wary of struggling too much and losing a needle in his arm, and by the time they’re finally done stealing his blood he feels far too weak to do much of anything. All he can really do with the sudden weakness in his bones is stare at the walls, at Felix sagging in the grip of his guards as the fight drips out of him with his blood.

Is this why people around the monastery have been going missing? All because they happened to have Crests? Is this what happened to them?

Sylvain doesn’t realize how close he’s gotten to the ground until one of the guards hoists him back mostly upright and starts moving toward the door. The mages are left behind to put their heads together, muttering over his and Felix’s blood--_what the hell_\--as Sylvain struggles with keeping track of the maze again.

They don’t go back the same way. They’re brought right around the corner instead of left, and then they travel up a flight of stairs, finally arriving in another room that is promptly locked as soon as Felix and Sylvain are inside. This one has more light coming through bars in the door, a few more beams to illuminate a pallet against one of the walls. When the footsteps in the hall fade away, Felix takes uneven steps toward the pallet and lowers himself carefully to the floor. 

“Were you keeping track of where we were?” he asks, rubbing the needle marks left on his arm.

Sylvain blinks, unsure of how long he’s been standing next to the door. “What?”

Felix twists onto his side to glare at him. “I put all that effort into distracting them. Was it all for nothing?”

Sylvain shakes his head quickly and almost falls over before he remembers his lesson from earlier. He steps back until his back hits the wall and slowly slides to the floor, breathing slowly to calm the sudden bout of nausea in his gut and the aching weightlessness in his head. 

“No--no, sorry. I’m a little out of it but--yeah, I was keeping track.” 

_ That’s _why Felix had kept fighting, even when he had no hope of winning. Sylvain follows up that extremely belated realization by rattling off the directions the guards had dragged them in, and then, “Good for us, we know where our prison cells are.”

“It _is _good,” Felix sighs, eyes drifting shut. “Who knows who else they have down here. And that room… We just need to…”

Sylvain waits for him to pick up again, but the silence stretches on. Sylvain pushes himself away from the wall and crawls across the room, his chest tight as he looks over Felix’s motionless body.

“Felix?” He shakes Felix’s shoulder for good measure. “Hey, come on--”

Felix groans and cracks his eyes open. “_Stop _it. Touch me again and I’m going to throw up on you.”

“Sorry,” Sylvain whispers, backing off. “I’m just--” Worried. “--checking up on you. Are you falling asleep?”

“Yes,” Felix answers shortly, eyes closed.

“Felix--”

“I’m _fine_,” Felix grunts. “It’s just blood loss.”

Just blood loss. Sure. Except he’s definitely lost more blood than Sylvain has. His face is still streaked with it, dried as it is. 

Felix sighs again. “Wake me up later if you’re so worried. Not like we can do anything like this, anyway.” He turns onto his back, seemingly settling in and conking right out before he suddenly opens his eyes again and levels Sylvain with a sharp look. “And that is _ not _ your cue to do anything stupid while I’m out.”

Sylvain returns the warning with a smile that he hopes is reassuring. “I get it. No acts of bravery. I’ll wake you up if something happens, though.”

Felix nods and turns to face the wall. His breathing turns deep in seconds, unconsciousness hurtling at him with the aid of his wounds and blood loss. 

Sylvain resists the urge to flop down and drift away himself, rubbing his eyes against the heavy pull trying to drag him down. He turns toward the door instead, eyes tracing the shafts of light reaching through the bars and what little details in the door he can make out while his mind is nearly overrun with questions that he can’t answer.

The time of day, the length of time they were unconscious, their location and whether or not anyone even knows they’re _gone_...

There’s just no way to know yet.

All he knows is that they’re underground somewhere--they have to be, what with the temperature, the complete lack of windows, the stale air--and that whoever these people are, they must have no shortage of resources to have a Crest analyzer like _that_. 

There’s their connection to the Death Knight, too. And the fact that the already knew about his and Felix’s Crests. Which means… what? 

That someone knows the heirs of Gautier and Fraldarius on sight? That the _ Death Knight _knows them? None of that bodes well for them, or their classmates.

He looks over his shoulder, checking on Felix again. Still unconscious, still bruised and bloody--but still breathing. Probably dreaming of his chance to fight his way out of this prison with his bare hands. Sylvain just has to come up with a _ plan_. 

Sylvain props his elbows on his knees and buries his head in his arms. Of all the messes to drag Felix into… Ingrid is going to be furious, that’s for sure. He only hopes that it won’t be long before they get to see her again.


	2. waxing crescent

Sylvain knows that something is wrong the moment he wakes up. The fact that he has to wake up at all is his first clue. The next is that he wakes up alone. 

Oh, _no_. How long was he out?

Too long, he knows as he scrambles to his feet, stumbling under his own unsteady limbs and woozy head. He wastes even more precious seconds staring into the darkness, willing Felix to be there, but the room continues to be empty, silent but for his own breathing. 

Sylvain goes for the door, where torchlight still slips through the bars. He peeks out between them, finding nothing of interest in the flickering shadows and no one to respond to his calls.

So, he shouts louder, letting his voice carry as far as he can get it. “Hey! _ Answer me! _ What the hell did you do with my friend?”

Echoes. Not that he had honestly expected anything more. 

“All right, then,” he hisses as he steps back from the door and considers it grimly. “Time to get serious.”

He’d hoped for a little more time, a little more information to work with, but the sand’s been running low since he first woke up here. It’s time to make with the daring escape.

His first obstacle is sturdy, but he’s seen sturdier doors. Ones that were full iron instead of reinforced wood. Ones that weren’t rusting and decaying. Ones that didn’t budge in their frames when he grabbed hold of the bars, that didn’t have hinges he could see and touch.

“Let’s see what we can do with this,” he murmurs as he adjusts his grip and braces his foot on the wall. 

For a moment, he’s glad to be alone. There’s no one to see him look a complete fool, a child throwing a tantrum after being grounded, a desperate man. 

“Come on, _ come on_. Fucking Crest--if you’re worth so damn much, give me something _ good _ for once!”

The door shakes with each tug. One of the bars bends and he wraps both hands around it until he can yank it free. It clatters noisily on the floor at his feet and he uses the gap left behind to get a better grip on the door. The hinges begin to groan as the sound of heavy footsteps reaches him from down the hall, a pair approaching from somewhere to his left.

“What the hell is going on down there?” a voice asks, drawing a grunt and the shuddering of Sylvain’s cell door in response. 

“What the fuck?” the second guard blurts out as they reach Sylvain’s cell and look in. Sylvain bares his teeth at them. He must look like some monster in the dark to them. “Shit, he has that Crest--”

The first guard draws a knife and starts to reach through the gap in the door with it before the other stops him. 

“They don’t want anything happening, remember? Might mess up results or something.”

“Tough luck, he’s gonna break the damn door down.”

“Promise I’ll take it slow if you tell me what the hell you brought me here for,” Sylvain chimes in, snarling in a parody of sweetness. “Where’s my friend?”

“I got nothing to say to you,” the knife-wielding guard says gruffly. “Get back and shut your mouth.”

Sylvain does neither. His grin is a threat more than a smile. “No dinner--not even a dance? I think I’ll just take my leave now.”

In the end, he doesn’t have to tear the door down with his bare hands, no matter how good it feels to have made it so close. The guard spits a curse out under his breath and trades the knife for a set of keys, probably intending to make good on his warnings, but Sylvain doesn’t give him the chance.

His own actions are a blur, his mind blanking in a way that would concern him anywhere else. In one moment, the guards loom in the doorway, but in the next, Sylvain has relieved them of their weapons and keys. He bolts down the hall immediately after, leaving one guard with a ringing concussion and the other with his own sword jammed under his arm. 

The heat licking through his veins flickers out as he runs, giving way to exhaustion as the might of his Crest fizzles away. Sylvain ignores it and keeps moving, stolen sword in hand. He retraces the directions from earlier, unsure of what exactly he’s going to do when he finds Felix, but hoping all the same that he _will_. 

The room with the Crest analyzer, however, is empty. There’s nothing but the analyzer, the shelves full of weird things, the metal pipes running through the walls and the desk that’s all but overturned by the time Sylvain is done rifling through it for clues. 

It’s all for naught. There’s nothing to tell him where Felix is. 

A chill settles in his gut and he almost laughs. Reckless. Thoughtless. That’s what Felix likes to call him. Did he act too quickly?

His answer is a faint noise echoing from somewhere deep within the labyrinth he’s now lost in. A sound that wraps around his lungs and squeezes from someplace he can barely fathom. A voice--no--a scream. 

_ Felix. _

Sylvain runs. There’s scarcely a method to the turns he picks--all he knows for sure is that even if every new passage is colder than the last, even if some are lit with odd glowing tiles, they each bring him closer to Felix’s voice. Every cry is worse than the last, making Sylvain’s blood heat again. 

He wishes he could dampen it himself, even as it spurs him on. A Crest that only responds reliably to pain--what a _ blessing_.

A scythe swings out from the shadows beyond a corner, but Sylvain is _ready _for it this time. He ducks instinctively and inadvertently sends himself sliding across one of the glowing tiles, but smacking his shoulder against the wall is several times more preferable than losing his head.

“Pitiful boy,” the Death Knight says, a deadly figure cut from darkness looking down on Sylvain. Their warped voice grates on Sylvain’s ears, but there’s nothing else to focus on--

\--no other voices--

“Why did you bring us here?” Sylvain demands scornfully. He sidles away, step by step, as he stands up. “More importantly, what did you do to Felix?”

The Death Knight scoffs. “I care nothing for these games.” The scythe is brandished once more. “Nor your purpose here. But if you crave this dance of damnation, I will gladly share it.”

What Sylvain craves has nothing to do with damnation, but the chance to say so is gone before he can even grasp it. The Death Knight is even quicker on foot than they are on horseback and it’s all Sylvain can do to not fall then and there.

Don’t do anything stupid, he’d been told. He doesn’t have the breath to laugh. Hopefully, he can be forgiven on both accounts. 

“Yours is not the blade I long for,” the Death Knight laments after Sylvain manages a sloppy parry that would probably make Felix furious. It comes out in a sigh, a sound that very nearly escapes the warping of every other word from their lips, and it throws Sylvain off enough that he’s helpless to stop himself from getting kicked over. 

Sylvain finally drops his useless sword in favour of scrabbling at the harsh gauntlet wrapped tight around his neck, as futile as it is. His airway is completely cut off and it seems to take no effort at all on the Death Knight’s part. Not even a desperate flare of Sylvain’s Crest is enough to pry their fingers away. 

“Will you find joy in it?” The Death Knight asks, leaning in too close for comfort. They lift Sylvain off the ground and asks again, “Will you find joy in dying together?”

Sylvain would spit in their glowing red eyes if he weren’t starved for oxygen--and if he weren’t suddenly flying through the air, thrown away as if he weighs nothing at all.

He doesn’t cry out when he lands, falling hard on his already bruised shoulder. At that moment, the only thing convincing him that he’s still alive at all is the pain radiating throughout his body. Light and sound don’t make sense, his earlier disorientation worsened by being choked. He doesn’t remember what an effortless breath feels like.

Failure, however… Is this what it feels like?

The Death Knight hauls him off the floor again as if to answer. 

Sylvain is thrown again, this time through a pair of large doors. He hits the floor and rolls, unable to bring himself to a stop as a freezing numbness forces his Crest into dormancy. When he tries to push himself to his feet--to his hands and knees at least, _ damn it_\--his palms slip out from under him. He’s bleeding again, he realizes too late. There’s a string of parting gifts from his killer soaking his arms and hands red. 

He’s bleeding out and he still hasn’t--

Felix is still--

“_Felix_,” Sylvain gasps, heart stuttering as his eyes follow the threatening shadow of the Death Knight to find the other figure on the floor with him--to find Felix sprawled on the floor, face pale and hair matted in more than one place now.

Sylvain fights his trembling muscles to get his knees and elbows under him so that he can crawl forward, wheezing through a different sort of pain when Felix doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t speak.

“Not dead,” Sylvain whispers. He leaves a bloody handprint on Felix’s arm, on his neck as he fails to find a pulse with numb fingers. “C'mon. Not _ here_.”

How long did they last?

Sylvain loses count of the years as he counts them, as Death itself looms over him, expressionless eyes tracking an incomprehensible, meaningless cacophony that he can’t put name or reason to even for the life bleeding away from him.

Awareness comes in pieces after that, loose waves of conscious and shreds of recognition. 

The noise all but overtakes the tomb, a harsh symphony that he can’t describe but is so ingrained in his bones that it aggravates what’s left of him, makes him wish that he could have died amidst a play of thunder, too. 

A voice jostles him. Warmth reaches for him through his blood, burning so brightly that it threatens to blind him when the last spark of energy meant for closing his eyes is suddenly redirected.

He lashes out at the arms sliding under Felix’s shoulders and knees, growling as they lift him away, “_Don’t touch him_.”

Mercedes brushes her warm fingers across his brow, shushing him softly, and he nearly goes blind again as her magic pulses through him again, turning embers to sparks and sparks to flames. 

“We’ve got you,” she tells him, tired and heavy and _relieved_.

The fire is going out again already. Sylvain mumbles, “Felix…”

“You’re all safe,” she says, rising to her feet.

Sylvain rises with her. He thinks the arms around him, carrying him out of this ungodly place, might be Dedue’s. 

There are no questions after the fire dies out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i'll get this done relatively quickly  
also me: spends more time playing fire emblem than writing for it


End file.
